


Soul But No Soldier

by PromptsforthewhumP



Category: The Killers (Band)
Genre: (Not to be taken seriously), AU, Blood, Crossfire (Music Video) - Freeform, Crossfire AU, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Other members are just referenced., Torture, Video Inspired, Whump, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromptsforthewhumP/pseuds/PromptsforthewhumP
Summary: (Just a dumb AU I thought of while watching the video - its not to be taken seriously.)Mr Brightside gets sent out on a solo mission... months later Miss Atomic Bomb comes to his rescue.
Relationships: Mr Brightside/Miss Atomic Bomb
Kudos: 5





	Soul But No Soldier

_**29th June 2009 - O’Sheas Pub, Las Vegas** _

“Christmas socks?” He stared at the package in amusement while the gift giver looked on shyly.

“They’re the only thing the store had on short notice.” She responded nonchalantly, and his face lit up in a bemused smile.

“In June?” He chuckled.

“Well, you know what the stores are like...” she trailed off, playing off the fact that she meant to give them to him at Christmas but chickened out at the last second. Also socks don’t necessarily scream ‘I have feelings for my work partner’, so she presumed it was safe gifting them for his five-month solo-mission - the likes of which their agency hadn’t administered before, hence the small gathering of close friends. The colleagues in question were trying, and failing, at the bar’s karaoke services. So it was just him and her. Mr Brightside and Miss Atomic Bomb, alone in a booth.

“So Morocco?” She said, endeavouring to change the subject, finding the bottom of her short glass endlessly interesting.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I’ve been assigned to infiltrate the N.I.N.J.A ring so...” He shrugged, taking a deep drink as his face hardened. “I’d rather been facing it with our squad rather than doing it alone.”

“Still, it’s not everyday you get to say you’re going to fight N.I.N.J.A’s. It’ll look good on your resume.”

“That’s if I come back.” She paused mid-sip. The bourbon stung her bottom lip as her mind ground to a halt.

“What do you mean?” She pushed.

“You’ve seen the files,” he shrugged, staring listlessly at the chipped wooden table, “They catch the spies and they kill them, and It’s not like I can defend myself, they’re sending in a Looker - me - to coerce intel from the contacts, and not to sound vain but even my face isn’t going to be any use against blades and shurikens.”

“So don’t get caught.” She blurted out, heart sinking yet pounding at the same time.

“I’ll try.” He sighed, “I’ll try.”

_**15th September 2009 - Warehouse, Unknown location** _

He stared down at the gingerbread-men socks covering his cut feet until his eyes dried and his head pounded. For the first time in hours he’d only just opened his eyes and already multiple things had been made apparent to him: he was freezing, in a lot of pain, and the air reeked of petrol. After a moment’s hesitation, he pealed his tired eyes open further, immediately regretting it as a harsh light burned into his retinas. For a minute he sat as still as possible, ignoring the uncomfortable drip of fresh blood down his temple as he considered how it had gone so wrong so quickly. One moment he was approaching a restaurant to meet with an associate he was to coerce, the next he was sipping whiskey from a short glass… The whiskey! Of course they’d drugged him, he remembered the bitter taste he’d been trained him to identify. They had also trained him to put up a fight: to make a scene; to never go quietly. The latter of which massively explained the raging concussion and the definitely broken wrist.

“He’s awake.” One of his captors announced in an accent he was unfamiliar with. The tall, masked man was stood with an associate, flanking his wooden chair while another toyed with a rusted generator.

“What do you want?” He mumbled, his tongue heavy as he tried to force his split lip to cooperate. He was sure his jaw was cracked from his merciless capture.

“Your associate.” Came the tired reply, as a figure pulled his rope bindings tighter. For a moment, the captive saw white as a blinding pain flared from his broken wrist.

“Mother fucker!” He ground out, collapsing into himself in his chair, once again instantly regretting it as he soon realised his ribs were far from alright.

“I don’t have any associates.” He wheezed after a moment, “I work alone.”

“If you work alone, then how did you infiltrate our organisation all those months ago?” He knelt down and closed the distance between himself and the captive.

“You can’t be that intelligent, can you Brandon?” Brandon’s blood ran cold at the mention of his name, and his eyes swerved to stare at the cages in the corner of the cluttered warehouse.

“My IQ rivals Einstein.” He stammered, swallowing thickly to try to retain some sense of hydration as the room had become uncomfortably humid. Despite lying about his IQ, the fact that he was alone wasn’t a complete lie; a recent rupture in their team had torn his squad apart, causing him to venture on his own with a new handler while his usual partner followed someone else. Regrettably, there’d been a tremulous argument after a mission that had gone south. She had taken too many risks and got herself shot because of it. He had been scared, terrified even at the prospect of losing her. He blinked hard and looked up through clearer eyes to recognise the uniforms of the mysterious men; the same men they fought on that mission almost a year ago. Panic washed over him when he realised they wanted her, and they were going to use him to finish what they’d started.

“Of course.” The ringleader smirked, toying with a serrated knife between his gloved hands, before pushing it under the collar of the captive’s white cotton shirt, which was now significantly dirtier after… how long had it been? Brandon’s sense of time crumbled at the seams and sent him into a mild panic.

“But we have time.” The tip of the blade was drawn casually down his chest and towards his thigh. “In the meantime, we might as well get acquainted.” In the fog of the room, he could see the man’s eyes cloud over with malice, before a stabbing pain erupted from his thigh.

“Fuck!” He gasped, casting a panicked look down to see the blade buried to hilt in his leg. His stomach rolled and he lurched to the side to throw up, but nothing but bile burned his oesophagus.

"We have all the time in the world.” The man sneered, and then proceeded to force the blade from the wound. All the captive remembered next was the room flashing white, then black.

**31st September 2009 - Unknown Location**

His socks were sodden with blood and squelched whenever he moved. The torture had been ramped up to daily, he couldn’t feel his toes anymore and his shirt had since been destroyed but he kept it on for sentimentality, to hold on to his identity for as long as he could. She always did like his cotton shirts…

_**??? September ???** _

Each time he looked at his feet he saw her smiling back up at him, with those wide eyes and even larger smile. For a moment, when there was a commotion outside of his cell, he thought he saw her face smiling through the bars. Her pale hand moved to open the lock on the gate and she stepped in with an angelic back light. He thought he heard the voices of his squad following suit, and for a second all was right with the world. However, with his hope, all wishes were thrown to hell when his captor materialised before him, dishevelled and reeking of smoke, to deliver a more painful round of torture.

_**29th June 2009 - O’Sheas Pub, Las Vegas** _

“I’ll be there on collection day.” She said, and he raised both his head and eyebrows in surprise. She shrugged him off. “What? Someone’s got to make sure you’re not dragged for an immediate de-brief.” And to make sure you’re okay...

“And Salaby will allow that?” He scoffed, “I won’t be able to leave his office for a week while I recount every detail down to the second. He doesn’t even let more than one person on an intel job for ‘security reasons’”

“Well, I can be very persuasive.” And that was the end of the conversation.

_**??? ???** _

Now beyond the day he was due to arrive at McCarran International Airport, he wished her persuasion techniques were working. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hang on. By now, his legs were numb with pain, his wrists burned and his stomach rolled. A splitting pain chiselled its way behind his eyes and the tell-tale signs of dehydration and starvation were creeping in, even his belt was having a hard time keeping his slacks on his hips despite being on the tightest loop. Brandon guessed that his last round of interrogation was two days ago, therefore another round was due at any time. He closed his eyes, figuring he may as well get some sleep in between.

_**??? ???** _

When he awoke next, he was upright, hanging by his wrists against what felt like a metal bed frame. He kicked his feet beneath him and felt nothing but cold, wet concrete beneath his feet. He cast a glance down to see himself standing barefoot in a puddle on the coarse ground. His socks were nowhere to be seen. Pitifully, a tear trailed down his gaunt cheek, mixing with the sweat and blood and grime. He just wanted to go home.

“He’s awake!” Someone hollered, and then tossed a bucket of ice water over his body. It would have been a blessing to his feverish skin if it hadn’t been ice cold.

“Are you ready to talk?” Brandon looked up through waterlogged eyes, still hard and defiant as he stared at his captive with disdain. He spat on the masked man’s face, revelling in how a tooth, blood and bile slapped across his forehead. For a moment the man began laughing, no hollering at Brandon, before his resolve broke and he drove a fist into his stomach. Brandon screamed as he felt ribs snap. He moved away and a masked lackey forced fabric into his mouth, while most of it lodged in the opening, a section of it slapped to the floor. The bloodstained gingerbread men smiled up at him and he smiled back through the metallic tasting cotton fabric. Just seeing that small reminder pushed his stubbornness further, just knowing he could see her again drove him to continue his silence, no matter how much it hurt him to do so.

“Ramp it up to 10.” The man growled to his left, and the small sense of victory Brandon felt dissolved as electricity pumped through him from the metal bindings.

_**??? ???** _

A week later, they shoved him in a warehouse and left him to rot. Jokes on them; he still has a little fight left in him.

... Doesn’t he? In a feverish haze, he often imagined what his rescue would be like. She would be at the forefront of course; leading the charge into his cell and bundling him up with all the care in the world. Ronnie would follow suit, the man he’d grown closest with in his old squad, his determination and jovial humour keeping Brandon lucid as a medical Evac whisked him away in an ambulance. And once he was discharged from the hospital, he would then gather the courage to ask her on a date. He had it organised down to the hour. That night Brandon slipped unconscious with a loopy grin on his face.

_**??? ???** _

Breathing had become significantly more difficult, and he knew he couldn’t move anymore. Still, he replayed his rescue in his mind repeatedly; his raging fever bringing out even more outlandish ideas and wishes with each rerun. Amid one of his simulations, the door creaked open and tentative steps approached. For a second, he thought it were a hallucination… that was until cool hands felt his face and neck, becoming more frantic as they tried to find something. ‘I don’t have anything to rob’ he thought morbidly, revelling in the cool sensation easing the burning of his clammy skin.

“Brandon?” He’s heard that voice before, no, one too many times. He heard it when he looked at his feet, when he met her in the halls, when he saw her outside of work.

“In here!” She screamed, in a desperation he’d never hope to hear again. It echoed across the warehouse before landing upon the ears of its target. Thundering footsteps followed as a second body approached.

“Oh my god!” they gasped before he was once again submerged by unconsciousness.

_**??? ???** _

“Easy, easy.”

“You try transporting someone on a tarp!”

“It’s the only thing that was in the warehouse - and there’s no way in hell I’ll let you toss him over your shoulder.”

“We still should have called an ambulance.”

“Too noisy, it’ll bring too much attention. Just get him to the van, when we get to the airport, they’ll take it from there, Salaby’s already organised emergency transport outta this place.”

_**??? ???** _

“Just hold on Brandon, not much longer.”

_**??? ???** _

A shaking hand caressed his hair, petting it down while another swiped a cool cloth over his face and neck.

“We’re nearly at the airport, just hang on, we’ll get you home.”

_**??? ???** _

“Fevers skyrocketing!”

“He’s seizing!”

“We’re still thirty miles out, and we don’t have landing clearance yet-”

“Get him stabilised- he’s crashing!”

“Oh god, Brandon-”

_**??? ???** _

“Come on, Brando, It’s safe to wake up now, you’ve done all the hard work, now all you have to do is open your eyes.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vannucci visiting time is over.”

“Alright,” There was a pause as he lent in to ruffle Brandon’s unruly hair. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

_**3rd November 2009 - Sunrise Hospital, Las Vegas** _

The first thing that registered was the uncomfortable ache throughout his body, slowly encompassing every limb in a dull throb that even pulsed through his teeth. Slowly, he realised the room was blissfully cool, and he was laying on soft sheets wearing dry clothes, a lingering scent reached his nose but he was to overcome with contentment to register it for now. He blinked his eyes open: slowly and tentatively while expecting darkness, but was instead met with a comforting light. The ceiling blurred into view and he attempted to cast his eyes downward, but was met by something covering his lower face. Immediately the discomfort registered, and he raised a sluggish hand to bat it from his face-

A gasp stopped him in his tracks and a pair of hands wrapped around his forearm, as a face shot into his line of sight.

“Brandon?” She said, hope dripping from her words. To Brandon, only one name came to mind:

“Charlie.” He rasped, briefly revelling in the calm aura that resonated from her dishevelled frame before diving into a coughing fit. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Immediately her comforting hands were on his shoulders, stopping him from jostling his ribs too much. When the hacking tapered out, and his throat was raw and dry and his ribs were pulsing, he realised the discomfort was from an oxygen mask strapped to his face.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again, do you understand?” She joked, smoothing down his unruly hair with a shaking hand.

“You were a bitch to find, those bastards kept on moving so we could never get a location… and when we did…” She sniffed, trying to steady her wobbling voice. “I thought you were dead.” She choked out.

“The way you were laying there like a ragdoll… you barely moved and barely responded to anything.”

“Your heart stopped just before we could get you back to Vegas… they were still performing CPR even after we’d landed and for a second they wanted to stop but…” A small smile broke out on her otherwise morbid face, “but I can be very persuasive.”

She paused to use the back of her free hand to swipe away some stray tears, though they picked up exponentially when Brandon used his unbroken arm to try to comfort her.

“Vannucci stopped by a little while ago, he said he be back but seeing the trauma of what you’ve been though… he’s finding it hard – we’re all finding it hard.” She pulled the thin blanket up higher on his chest.

“Just focus on getting better, alright?” She gave him a watery smile as he stared up at her, barely able to comprehend a word she was saying other than the fact that she was there with him. Charlie sat on the edge of the thin hospital bed, allowing the silence to speak her unspoken words as Brandon revelled in the gentle contact within the few minutes’ silence. Finally, after carefully constructing his sentence in his sluggish mind, it took him great effort to form the words. Nevertheless, he was grateful he was alive to tell her.

“Charlie?” He slurred, eyes falling shut as he failed the war against the painkillers coursing through his veins.

“Hmm?” She hummed, looking at him with those inquisitive eyes.

“’m gonna need some new socks.”


End file.
